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AN / ELEGY / ON THE / Death of the most Illustrious LORD, / THE / EARL of St. ALBANS: / Who departed this Life the first Day of this Instant January, 1684.University of California - Santa BarbaraThe Early Modern CenterDirectorPatricia Fumerton1684-1684Early Modern Center, University of California Santa BarbaraSanta Barbara, CA05/08/201232239

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Patricia FumertonEarly Modern Center - English DepartmentUniversity of CaliforniaSanta Barbara, CA 93105United States of AmericaEMail: pfumer@english.ucsb.edu

R36108GO stop the swift-wing'd Moments in their flight, / Arrest the Envious Course of Day and Night;
Information in this section of the Source Description
refers to the original ballad manuscript.
1: 134131AN / ELEGY / ON THE / Death of the most Illustrious LORD, / THE / EARL of St. ALBANS: / Who departed this Life the first Day of this Instant January, 1684.AN ELEGY ON THE Death of the most Illustrious LORD, THE EARL of St. ALBANS: Who departed this Life the first Day of this Instant January, 1684.AN ELEGY ON THE Death of the most Illustrious LORD, THE EARL of St. ALBANS: Who departed this Life the first Day of this Instant January, 1684.1684-1684I. Deacon

ANELEGYON THEDeath of the most Illustrious LORD,THEEARL of St. ALBANS:Who Departed this Life the first Day of this Instant January, 1684.

GO stop the swift-wingd Moments in their flight,Arrest the Envious Course of Day and Night;Alas! it will not be, we strive in vain,Not all our Art can one poor Hour regain:TIME flyes in haste to meet Eternity,As Rivers to the Bosome of the Sea,There to be lost; nor can we bribe the stayOf the least Minute, to prolong the Day,Which is by Fate ordaind to be our last,Without reverse, when once the Doom is past.For if there coud have been the least ReprieveTo Mortal Breath, thou hadst been still alive;St. ALBANS still, had blest our wondring Eyes,Who now the Tyrant Deaths pale Captive lies.Let us contemplate thee (brave Soul) and thoWe cannot track the way which thou didst goIn thy Celestial Journey, and our HeartExpansion want, to think what now thou art,How bright and wide thy Glories, yet we mayRemember thee as thou wert in thy Clay;Great without Title, in thyself alone,A mighty Lord, thou stoodst obliegd to noneBut Heaven and thyself, for that great worthWhich the propitious Stars that ruld thy BirthInspird into thy Noble Soul, and ThouNot wanting to thyself, didst make it growTo such prodigious height, thou wast becomeSo truly Glorious, that struck Envy Dumb.All Differences did in thy praise conspire,And evn thy Foes, if such coud be, admireThy Noble Life, which like the constant SunDid in the same Ecliptic always runEver most loyal to the Royal Cause,Which from the Heaven of Heavens its Title draws;Where now thou livst, freed from th uncertain sportOf Time and Fortune, in the Starry Court,A Glorious Potentate; while we below,But fashion woes to mittigate our woe.

And now my sorrows follow thee, I treadThe Milky way, and see the Snowy HeadOf Atlas far below, while all the high.Swoln Buildings seem but Attoms to my eye;How small seems greatness here? how! not a spanHis Empire who commands the Ocean,Both that which boasts so much its mighty Ore,And th other wh[i]ch with Pearl hath pavd its shore.Nor can it greater seem, when this great All,For which Men quarrel so, is but a BallCast down into the ayr, to sport the Star;And all our general Ruines, mortal wars,Depopulated States, causd by their sway,And Mans so reverend wisdom but their play.By thee St. Albans living, we did learnThe art of life, and by thy light discernThe truth which Men dispute; but by thee Dead,Wer taught upon the worlds gay pride to tread,And that way sooner Master it, than heTo whom both Indies tributary be:Thus shall we gain by Death, while we DeploreHis Fate, remembring how great and goodSt. Albans was, and yet but flesh and bloodAs we; how should the brave example moveOn kindled Souls, and lift us up aboveLow-thoughted Care of dull Mortality,Since, if as Good, we shall be Great as He.

The EPITAPH.

HAil! Sacred House, in which his Reliques Sleep,Blest Marble, give me leave t approach and Weep:Unto thy Self, great Spirit, I will RepeatThy Own brave STORY: tell thy Self how GreatThou wert in Minds Empire, and how allWho Out-Live Thee, see but the FUNERALOf Glory; and if yet some Vertuous be,They but the Apparitions are of Thee.

Printed for J. Deacon, at the Angel in Guilt-spur-street, without New-Gate, 1684.